


a first time for everything

by crowkag



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Awesome Pepper Potts, Cold, Domestic Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, Worried Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26734696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowkag/pseuds/crowkag
Summary: “Why are you whispering?” Pepper was asking, and the other noises were receding away behind the creak of a door and click of a lock.“Because I’m hosting a vigilante super-teen with enhanced hearing this weekend.” He slumped back into the couch cushions. “Or did you forget?”There was a sharp intake of breath.“Peter? Ohgod, what did you—”“Nothing,” Tony rushed out, scrambling. “He’s fine. The kid’s fine, honey.”A beat of silence.“Okay, well, he’s notfine, but—”“TonyStark—”
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 58
Kudos: 504





	a first time for everything

**Author's Note:**

> i said in my last fic that i couldn't write anything substantial, which was obviously a lie because here is 7k+ words of self-indulgent sick fic.
> 
> warnings for anxious thoughts, cursing, and vomiting.

7:36 PM

**tony** : _Pepper_.

—————————

7:45 PM

**tony** : _Pep_.

—————————

8:07 PM

**tony** : _Love of my life, Pepper Potts_.

—————————

8:26 PM

**tony** : _Do I need to use your first name to summon you?_

**tony** : _Because I will._

And, just like that, Tony’s phone was ringing. He lifted it up to his ear with an exhale of relief.

“Don’t do that,” came Pepper’s voice through the receiver, and though her tone was on the short end, it immediately calmed some of the tension in Tony’s shoulders.

“She lives!” he breathed, words hushed. “Good, because I need your help.”

“Mm. You usually do.”

“And I will always be the first to admit it, because you are capable and beautiful and I love you.”

“What did you do?”

Tony could picture the flint in her eyes. Any other night, it might place some measure of disquiet in his gut. Tonight, though? He couldn’t care less. With a measured breath, he glanced over the back of the couch into the darkened hallway leading from the living area. No square of light crept out from under the guest bedroom door.

Tony could only hope that meant the kid was still asleep.

Turning forward and hunching over, he reached a hand up to rub at his forehead.

“Well… it’s not so much _what_ I did as it is what I don’t know _how_ to do.”

“... What?”

“No, how.”

Pepper sighed, and past that, Tony could make out the background din of idle chatter and shuffling footsteps, the clink of silverware and the piling of food on plates. Right, that important awards banquet in Sydney, scheduled for the morning, of all things. Probably being broadcasted right now, with multiple certificates lined up for Stark Industries, and here Tony was, crashing it with a phone call and an eight-hour time difference.

He only felt slightly guilty about it.

“Why are you whispering?” Pepper was asking, and the other noises were receding away behind the creak of a door and click of a lock.

“Because I’m hosting a vigilante super-teen with enhanced hearing this weekend.” He slumped back into the couch cushions. “Or did you forget?”

There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Peter? Oh _god_ , what did you—”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Tony rushed out, scrambling. “He’s fine. The kid’s fine, honey.”

A beat of silence.

“Okay, well, he’s not _fine_ , but—”

“Tony _Stark_ —”

“He’s sick! With a cold, or the flu, or… _something_ ,” he finished lamely, returning to rubbing his forehead. The other end of the line grew quiet, deflating like a pricked balloon.

“Oh,” Pepper murmured. “I thought he didn’t get sick?”

“So did I. So did the kid! And now…” He sighed, shot up from the couch and rounded out into the open area by the kitchen so he could pace, inwardly reminding himself to keep his voice pitched low.

“And now?”

“And _now_ , I’ve got a fifteen-year-old kid hacking out a lung under my roof. He’s staying until Monday morning, Pep. I’m completely out of my depth here.”

“Did you try calling his aunt?”

“I mentioned it. Kid just started pleading with me not to say a word, that his aunt didn’t get much time to herself, how she’s been looking forward to this trip for months, the whole nine yards. Pulled the Bambi eyes on me and everything.”

Pepper hummed, and there was an amused smile behind it, small yet unmistakable.

“So I was the next best thing?”

Tony halted in his pacing near where the carpet met tiling.

“You’re _the_ best thing,” he said, not caring about the hint of desperation that wandered into his words. Entering the kitchen proper, he sat himself on an island stool and leant over the counter, forehead dropping into his free palm. “I don’t know how to take care of a sick kid, Pepper.”

“Neither do I.”

“This was supposed to be a simple weekend,” he continued. “Keep the kid occupied with suit upgrades and the surround sound speakers on the TV, order pizza when he’s hungry, tell him the bathroom is the first door on the left. Now he’s… he’s _dripping_.”

Pepper made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a choked-off laugh.

“Dripping?”

“Dripping! Ya know, sweat and mucus. All that.”

“Right,” Pepper drawled, and okay, that was most _definitely_ a laugh that time. Tony frowned.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes.” A cacophony of applause was picked up by the phone, thunderous enough to be heard from whatever side room Pepper had slipped into. Tony heard his fiancée curse at the same time his stomach dropped into his feet. “Tony, I gotta go. So, real quick. Is it Peter’s fault he got sick?”

Tony blinked in surprise at the question.

“Uh, logic says no, but—”

“Then just don’t treat this like that’s the case. You care about him, so lead with that. I really need to get back out there. I’ll call you later, okay? Love you.”

With a swell in volume, the call cut off, fast and sudden enough that Tony barely had time to shoot an “I love you” back. And there was certainly no room spared for him to protest Pepper’s words, which had been spoken so casually.

_You care about him._

_Don’t treat this like it’s his fault._

Tony sighed and leant down until his cheek rested on the countertop, wondering just _when_ his willpower had started hinging on the wide-eyed look of one Peter Parker.

—————————

He’d managed to masquerade as some form of distracted since getting off the phone, mostly thanks to Pepper sending off reports she needed a second pair of eyes to pore over. A performance tactic, Tony knew, to keep him occupied, and he loved her for it. Spending time in the lab wouldn’t work anyhow, if the way his stomach twisted up at the mere _thought_ of leaving the penthouse was anything to go by.

( _You care about him, so lead with that._ )

Still, there was only so much a monotonous scroll of words and graphs could keep at bay, so when FRIDAY informed him that the shower in Peter’s ensuite bathroom had turned on, a switch in Tony’s brain flipped on command.

“So he’s up and walking around?” he questioned, eyes directed at the ceiling, an index finger mindlessly scrolling up and down on his tablet.

“Affirmative, boss.”

“Good. Great. That’s great. Up and moving means not down and dying.” He set the tablet on the coffee table and tilted his neck against the back of the couch, rubbing his eyelids. “He’ll still need to eat, right? I should fix something for him?”

“The presence of a virus does not negate the need for nutritional sustenance, boss.”

“Input appreciated, sass less so,” Tony grumbled, rocking himself forward and onto his feet. He was 65% certain a can or two of chicken noodle soup was staking claim in the farthest reaches of some kitchen cabinet, so that’s where he went. Sure, maybe “maintaining the health and safety of a runny-nosed Spider-Kid” wasn’t his forte, but he could remember enough of his MIT days to know that anything heavier than broth on an upset stomach was practically _begging_ for vomit stains on the carpet.

Tony didn’t want vomit stains on his carpet.

He didn’t want vomit stains on _Pepper’s_ carpet. She’d kill him.

… And besides, the kid had to eat _something_.

“You remember the last time I prepared food on my lonesome, Fri?” he asked, cracking his neck as he pulled open a panty door.

“Can’t say I do, boss.”

“Yeah, me neither. Keep DUM-E on standby.”

——————————

It occurred to Tony as he ladled soup into a bowl that he probably should have checked on Peter at some point between now and the stumbling shuffle he’d made into the guest bedroom.

Actually, he probably should have escorted Peter to the guest bedroom himself instead of leaving him to find his own way, seeing as how he’d been stumbling in the first place.

He should have thought of fixing him something to eat _hours_ ago, should have asked if he’d eaten the moment FRIDAY unlocked the lab doors for him.

Food should have already _been_ ordered, freshly delivered for whenever the kid arrived.

And _maybe_ , when the first glimpse of Peter to start off their weekend had been one of a pallid complexion and bloodshot eyes, Tony’s first words shouldn’t have been, “Damn, kid. You get hit by a bus on the way over?”

He was ridiculous. Tony and this entire situation were ridiculous, with so many mistakes made in such a short amount of time, and not the faintest inkling of how to resolve them beyond _you care about him, lead with that._

… Shit.

Maybe he shouldn’t have invited Peter over at all. Shouldn’t have let himself get so attached (and he was attached, he was, no matter how much he put on a face and denied it). He shouldn’t have taken the kid to Germany, shouldn’t have set one foot into his apartment—into his _life_ —that day, all those months ago. Shouldn’t have given the suit back, or taken it away, or gifted it in the first place.

Tony couldn’t be sure whether it was honest regret clawing up his brainstem, or some fantasy version whipped up by those emotional walls his therapist loved to talk about. And that scared him, the fact that he couldn’t tell. Because if there was the slightest chance that it _wasn’t_ legitimate regret, then where the fuck did that leave him?

Ladling chicken noodle soup into a bowl, he guessed.

“So, what’s the verdict, Fri? Look about as good as your mother used to make it?” he asked, pulling a spoon out of the drawer beside him.

“I do not have a mother, boss.”

“Excellent. Zero competition.”

With shoving the drawer closed came imagining the shoving of those darker thoughts, banished to the depths of his brain, inside a container with a lock but no visible keyhole. Tony had had many a healthy coping mechanism imparted upon him since starting therapy, and though they didn’t always work, they were always worth trying. At least, that’s what he’d been told.

He placed the spoon in the bowl, the bowl on a plate, and clapped his hands together. “Shall we pay the kid a visit?”

“It seems that won’t be necessary, boss.”

From behind him, Tony heard shuffling footfalls and a croaky, “Hi, Mister Stark.” Spinning around, he was greeted with the sight of Peter standing at the kitchen threshold, still looking under the weather but with tiny pockets of color in his cheeks. Clearly, the nap had helped, and Tony felt a miniature point of weight ease off his chest.

He flashed a smile.

“Hey, Pete. FRIDAY said you took a shower?” Admittedly, it was a stupid question. The kid’s curls were dripping wet spots into his T-shirt.

“Yeah. Helped a bit.”

“Good. That’s good. And—” Tony lifted the plate off the counter, balancing the bowl atop it precariously, “—I made you something to eat. No refusals allowed. From the goodness of my heart to the easing of your stomach.”

Peter smiled, stepping further into the kitchen. He accepted the soup with quiet thanks, looking thoughtful as he spun the broth around with the spoon, then gave a light snort.

“Didn’t know you cooked, Mister Stark.”

Tony shrugged, smile becoming a grin.

“Eh, cook’s an operative term.”

Still staring into the broth, Peter chuckled, and _this_ was what Tony knew how to deal with. The banter, the back-and-forth, the humorous ease carried along by whatever the hell had built up these past few months between mentor and mentee. A rapport, camaraderie, mutual understanding… whatever it was, Tony was glad he had it as a handhold now.

Then, Peter started coughing again, and the bubble popped. The soup was put down on the island with sharp, jerky movements, leaving one arm free for Peter to shove his mouth into. The other wrapped around his middle as he leant into the countertop, body shaking.

Tony hovered. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself otherwise, outside frowning in concern. A majority vote in his brain screamed at him to take no less than ten steps backwards, but there went the _it’s not his fault_ thing, blinking above the jury.

Another part of him, smaller but no less vocal, told him to reach out. Maybe he could place a hand on the kid’s back in comfort, or lean him into his shoulder, instead of against the cold edge of the island. Except, something stalled him, and he wasn’t quite sure what. Hence… hovering. Awkward hovering, actually, and Tony had never figured out how to wear awkward with grace.

When the fit subsided, Peter peeked out from the crook of his elbow with a sheepish look in his red-rimmed eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and Tony’s frown only deepened.

“Why don’t you sit down, yeah?” He meant to pull out a stool, only he stopped himself when Peter spoke up again.

“Could we maybe… could we put a movie on?”

Tony blinked, then quickly schooled his surprise into a look of calm with a small clearing of his throat. There’d been an edge to Peter’s voice, insecurity tinged with the faintest dosage of hope, and goddammit, Tony was doomed. Him, and his couch.

“Sure thing, Pete.”

—————————

One run of _Back to the Future_ later—Tony couldn’t deny that the kid had impeccable taste—left a now-empty bowl discarded on the coffee table, and a congested, snoring Peter curled up tight on one end of the couch. He was covered with a bulkier throw Pepper kept folded up in the hallway closet.

Tony sat on the opposite end of the couch, feet propped up and StarkPad in hand. The television had been flicked off shortly after the credits started rolling, so his only audible company was the wind whipping against the Tower windows, a germ-infested teenager mumbling lightly in his sleep, and the musical accompaniment to the game of Candy Crush Tony was currently blasting through. Volume set to low, of course. For baby ears.

And not that it wasn’t _wildly_ entertaining to be sitting up alone without some latest invention to keep him company, but he was beginning to feel downright bored, and leaving the penthouse for the workshop still wasn’t an option. Seemed like every time the thought so much as crossed his mind, Peter would shift in his sleep and Tony would be back at ground level. Just… teetering, between the desire to occupy himself and the need to _stay_. In case the kid started… choking on his tongue in his sleep, or… sneezing and getting a nosebleed.

Or rolling off the couch. Or rolling off the couch and hitting his head on the coffee table. Or rolling off the couch, hitting his head on the coffee table, sneezing mid-hitting-his-head, and getting a nosebleed. _While_ choking on his tongue.

Or something worse. Something so much worse that Tony couldn’t even imagine. Or his present symptoms simply _getting_ worse. Or even him getting better, springing up off the couch and deciding he wanted to work on his webshooter upgrades, only to feel crushed when he realized Tony had gone off without him. Or—

A little message notification from Pepper slid onto the top of Tony’s screen, and he clicked on it lightning-quick. Thoughts banished into his lockbox.

10:47 PM

**pepper** : _Everything okay?_

Tony smiled. It constantly occurred to him that Pepper just seemed to know when he needed her. He typed out his reply with fingers that were on the slightest side of shaky.

**tony** : _Peachy keen, minus the kid’s respiratory system._

**tony** : _But he’s passed out right now._

**tony** : _Drooling and everything._

**pepper** : _Poor thing… I hope he feels better soon._

**tony** : _You should feel bad for our couch, it’s the one that gets to be sneezed on._

**pepper** : _Oh, hush. You know I can see right through you :)_

**tony** : _Smiley face only makes it look threatening._

**pepper** : _I know :)_

Rolling his eyes and setting the tablet down, Tony noticed how the battery charge sat at a measly 5% in the same moment he realized how twitchy he was feeling, going beyond mere boredom and edging into “I need a strong cup of espresso” territory. He leant forward and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then cast a look in Peter’s direction, grimacing at the angle in which the kid’s neck met the decorative throw pillow beneath him. It wouldn’t leave a pretty picture come morning, that was for sure.

Tony supposed it wouldn’t hurt to set Peter back up in the guest room—maybe he could actually help him this time around—and brew himself something to stave off the inevitable caffeine-withdrawal headache. With a grunt, he stood up and stretched his arms high over his head, stepping around the couch to come up behind Peter’s sleeping form. When he let his muscles relax, one hand went to lightly jostle the teenager’s shoulder.

Peter’s face scrunched up and he gave a loud sniff.

“Mis’er Stark?” he mumbled, phlegmy voice slurred with exhaustion. “Wha’s happenin’?”

“Apologies for disturbing your beauty rest, kid, but let’s move you back into the guest room, yeah? Not too keen on adding neck pains to your long list of ailments.”

“Mm? Yeah, okay, jus’—” he yawned, long and loud, “—gimme a minute.”

Tony smirked.

“Take all the time you need. Which is a lie, by the way. You got till I drain my next cup of coffee.”

Then he stepped back and made for the kitchen, smirk growing into a fond smile at Peter’s grumbles. Something about how he was “an old man who talked too much.”

It was a familiar routine now, pulling out the espresso beans on one shelf and rooting out mugs on another. He settled on an old favorite, an MIT ceramic with a chipped rim, and by the time the coffee machine began grinding and bubbling away, Tony was heading down the hallway to his bedroom. The faded jeans and T-shirt he’d worn all day were tossed in favor of sweatpants and an Air Force hoodie he’d stolen from Rhodey some years back. He spared a thought to grab the tablet charger off his nightstand, and then was making his way back to the living room.

It took all of ten minutes, tops. Certainly not long enough for circumstances to drastically flip around, though Tony knew by now that he rarely got so lucky.

Peter hadn’t moved from the couch. Not that Tony expected anything different, but something felt… off. Wrong, tense, strained, and he couldn’t explain it beyond a weird knot in his gut, so he opted to try ignoring it.

“Alright, kid,” he said, approaching the coffee machine. He placed the charger on the counter and pulled out the pot, beginning to fill his mug. “Time’s almost up.”

When all he got was silence in return, Tony frowned. The knot tightened.

“You didn’t fall back asleep, did you?” Sliding the pot back in place, half-filled mug instantaneously lowering on his priority list, he went into the living room.

“Peter?”

And the knot became nothing short of a constriction when he got a pained groan in response.

Immediate and full-stop, he zoned into a nothing-else-matters tunnel vision, both exits leading directly to the teenager huddled on his couch. The one who he was coming up on now, who he could see fully, and he wasn’t just huddled. Wasn’t curled, or tucked, or buried under a blanket.

He was _shaking_.

Shaking and sweating, face contorted and dug into the couch cushion. A ball of stiffened muscle, knees pulled up tight and pressed into his sternum. One hand clenched so forcefully in his hair that the curls were yanked taut and his knuckles blanched white.

Tony’s heart leapt up into his throat, pounding against his esophagus, but he shoved it back in place just as fast. A blinding surge of pressure screamed that this wasn’t the time to panic, no matter how forcefully his nerves twisted around his ribs. He rounded to the front of the couch and ignored the protest in his knees as he knelt down atop one corner of the throw, which Peter must’ve kicked off in the last few minutes.

“Kid?” he started, placing a hand on the armrest for balance. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

Peter whined in response, a pained sound from the chest that had Tony’s heart splintering into little pieces. He had to fix this, he had to, he… he didn’t know _how_ , but he had to do _something_.

“Can you look at me, Pete?”

The kid just groaned again, turning his face deeper into the cushion under his cheek. Tony blew out a breath.

“Okay. Okay, that’s alright. No looking. That’s fine.”

He rocked forward an inch on the balls of his feet, then back. Worked his jaw side to side, thumped his fingers where they gripped the armrest. Restless, twitchy, unsure of what to do, what to do, what to _do_.

His eyes settled again on the death-grip Peter had in his hair, saw how the curls were uncoiling, tighter and tighter away from his scalp, and Tony only hesitated for a split-second before he brought his free hand down atop Peter’s. Carefully, gently, he ran a thumb back and forth over those whitened, rigid knuckles, hoping to massage away some of the tension.

“Can you at least tell me what hurts?” he asked, voice pitching lower. Peter didn’t give an answer right away, just continued to tremble and shrink into the cushions. Tony’s brain was up in flames by this point, molten-metal hot and trying to hide it. He was about to barrel forward and ask again, more insistent but just as quiet, when Peter finally shoved out through gritted teeth, “ _Head._ ”

Tony blinked and leant in. It was a migraine, then. He could work with a migraine.

“How bad, buddy?”

Peter sucked a short breath in, shoulders rattling with the force of it.

“ _Twelve_.”

And if Tony’s brain wasn’t already burnt to a fucking crisp, that nearly put it there. Because shit. _Shit_. He knew sixes and sevens. A particularly bad night two months ago had introduced him to a nine, which was the closest May Parker had ever gotten to wringing out his life with her bare hands, and hell, Tony couldn’t say he’d ever blame her.

A twelve… He’d never considered a twelve, hadn’t even thought it within the range of possibilities. There was a reason the scale went zero to ten. It wasn’t _supposed_ to go past ten, not ever. That was the unstated rule, the nature of it all, the—

“Mister Stark,” Peter choked, words heavy with a sob, and there was an inflection there that had Tony jolting back into himself all at once. He’d never heard his name said in such a way before. It wasn’t any of what it usually signaled when Peter called his name. Not a simple call for attention, or a request to look something over, or a huff of exasperation.

This time, it was a plea. A “help me” plea. A “make it stop” plea. And Tony could only recognize it because he used to ask after Jarvis in that way. Jarvis, or his mom, before he became used to masking his fear, to covering up his hurt with a patchwork job.

“ _Mister Stark_ ,” Peter repeated, and fuck, the kid was crying now. Even though he _hated_ crying in front of Tony. He’d never said as much, but Tony could tell in the way he would set his face during every late-night bone resetting, or stitch-up job, or insertion of an IV-drip.

He hated it, yet was crying anyway. Tears slipping out freely, unbidden, no sense of shame, and it hit Tony then, square in the chest while he stared and floundered and tried to collect himself.

Peter was just a kid.

No matter how easy it was to forget sometimes.

And Tony was the only adult around right now to take care of him.

It was like the flip of a switch.

“I hear ya,” Tony murmured, moving his hand lower to wipe a quick thumb over one wet cheekbone, working to overpower the surge of white noise in his ears. “I’m gonna make this better, okay? I’ll fix this, I will, just lemme… hey, Fri?”

“Yes, boss?” The AI’s volume was tinged with concern and appropriately lowered.

“Are those painkillers still locked in the medbay? The ones Bruce and Helen synthesized?”

“One moment… Yes, the pills you used last week are in room two. I will authorize access for emergency purposes.”

Tony barely thought to scoff at that last bit as he scrambled to his feet—emergency purposes his ass, it was _his_ building—giving Peter a quick squeeze on the shoulder as he went.

“See, bud? Fixing it right now. I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

Peter didn’t look around, didn’t lift his face from the couch, but the distressed noise he made as Tony moved away was enough of a “don’t go” in its own right.

“I know, I know.” God, he felt like utter garbage. “Fast as I can, I swear. Just a minute.”

Then he was making a mad dash for the stairs, because the elevator would take too fucking long and if he had to stand there and _wait_ while Peter curled in on himself and cried in the background, then he would certainly lose his mind. The stairwell door shoved open, and then it was step, step, step, flying down two stairs at a time near the bottom of each floor. A jumpy staccato beat of his socks on the stairwell as he rounded one railing, then another.

Just what the _hell_ had he been thinking, anyways, building the medbay so damn far away? _Hiring_ people who would accept building the medbay _so goddamn far away?_

“Cabinet’s unlocked, Fri?” he asked as he finally yanked open the door that opened onto the medbay floor, hauling ass down the white-washed hallway.

“Yes, boss. Room two.”

“Right.”

The little key card swipers for each door cast red lines of light into the polished flooring. Tony kept a solid pace as he passed each one, having slowed from a sprint to a hurried jog. Red light, red light, red light… Room eight, room six, room four… green light on room two. He slipped into the room and let the door click shut behind him, blinking rapidly under the scant lighting.

Peter had wound up here the first night he’d been in shitty enough condition to need hospital staff in the first place, and almost overnight, it had become an unofficial, cordoned-off, spandexed-vigilantes-only zone. There were Star Wars and Firefly posters hung up on the walls and everything, something Tony had found immensely amusing when he’d requested the decor, but was now coming off as nothing short of sickening. He made a beeline past the hospital bed—and Nathan Fillion’s all-seeing, judgmental eyes—toward the medicine cabinet on the far wall.

It opened without a problem, thank goodness for FRIDAY, and he scooped up the clear pill bottle before hurrying back out into the hallway.

Each step kept up the same feverish pace. One minute. That was what he’d told Peter. Just one, fast as he could go, he’d _swore_. Which was logistically impossible, and he knew so as a man of science. But right now, as a mentor, as a guardian, as a… as a _whatever the hell he was to Peter Benjamin Parker_ , well. The laws of physics could go fuck themselves.

Every muscle in his body screamed at him to slow down as he bounded back up the stairwell, but he only allowed himself a few quick seconds to catch his breath, on the landing directly below the penthouse-level entrance. When he climbed that final flight and opened up onto his apartment, it wasn’t with the loud burst of a man whose heart was working overtime, but rather a gentle push on the handle, mindful to keep the door from slamming against the opposite wall.

“See, bud?” he said by way of announcing his return, trying to mask the ache in his lungs. “Solution inbound.”

The kitchen was closest to where he stood, so Tony hurriedly grabbed his MIT mug up from where it sat beside the coffee machine, rinsing out the espresso to replace with water from the tap. He kept a cautious eye over his shoulder all the while, enough to see that Peter had changed positions since he’d been gone. No longer a shivering wreck curled up flush against the couch cushions, he’d become a shivering wreck tucked against where the couch’s backrest met its arm, head resting heavily on his knees.

_That’s still a good sign, right? Movement? Activity?_

Tony swallowed heavily, twisting off the faucet and moving to the living room.

“Alright, kiddo. Superpower painkillers and something to wash them…” He trailed off as he came up to Peter’s side, nose wrinkling up a bit at a new smell. Almost on cue, his eyes glanced down to the carpet and snagged on the stain of bile seeping into the fabric, and against the edge of Pepper’s throw.

As if Peter could tell he’d noticed, the teenager’s shoulders hiked up high around his ears, which were tinged red. Tony couldn’t tell if the coloring was out of illness or embarrassment.

“Oh, kid,” he murmured, and he really did mean it to sound gentle. While some part of him was thrown off by the mess, the disgust was easily overpowered by sheer concern. Peter must have heard something else though, because he flinched so hard Tony could see the twitch go up his spine. A curly head lifted off shaking knees, revealing blotchy cheeks and screwed-shut eyes.

Working through what sounded like a whole hell of a lot of pain, he took measured breaths, his mouth trying to form words but only managing garbled nonsense. Tony thought he heard an attempt at a “Sorry, I’m sorry,” thrown in there, and his chest seized up.

“Hey, none of that,” he interrupted, a little harsher than he’d intended, but it effectively clamped the kid’s mouth shut. Tony placed the mug of water on the side table and began unscrewing the lid off the pill bottle. “Not your fault, buddy, okay? Just… here.”

He shook two painkillers out into his open palm, reaching over the back of the couch to bump Peter’s knee with his fingers.

“Take these, okay? Enough kick to calm a raging Hulk.”

Peter’s eyes fluttered open blearily, long enough to see the medicine, then slipped shut just as quick. Tony made a sound of encouragement as he reached a hand out, pinching the pills between a thumb and index finger before fumbling them into his mouth.

“There ya go. And, here.” Tony brought the mug over, knocked that against Peter’s knee too. “Would be pretty gross to swallow ‘em dry.”

Though Peter wrapped his hands around the ceramic like a lifeline, Tony kept his fingers balanced against the bottom of the mug—mumbling “small sips, small sips”—while the pills were washed down. When they were gone and the drink was whisked away, Peter all but slumped sideways, head tilted atop the back cushion of the couch. Tony took a spot there, too, leaning on the opposite side of the backrest with his legs stretched out and feet flat on the floor.

Peter’s cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat, curls plastered down to his skin. He still had his eyes shut, eyebrows pinched in the middle, and every breath came through a slightly-open mouth. It was a reedy sound, laced with pain, his shoulders rising and falling in time with the inhales and exhales.

Tony reached out, and this time there was no hesitation. His thumb found the skin between Peter’s eyebrows and ran in light, small circles, unworking that bundle of wrinkled tension. Then he slid his fingers through Peter’s curls, lifting the hair from the kid’s head and letting it fall back down. It was one, smooth motion, before Tony folded both his hands into his lap and went still, torso remaining twisted in Peter’s direction.

“Just give it a bit to kick in, buddy,” he whispered. “It’ll be alright.”

And then, soft in some other way he didn’t know he possessed, “I’ll be right here.”

—————————

When the painkillers finally kicked in, a wash of color seeped slowly back into Peter’s cheeks. Tony watched the advance with a light feeling in his chest, listening for how the kid’s breaths went staccato to legato, and once he was sure that Peter looked more exhausted than pained, he asked, “You good to move?”

Peter gave a small, sluggish _mhm_ as his answer, and Tony helped pick him off the couch with a firm hand against his side.

The journey to the guest room was slow and bumbling, mostly due to Peter trying his damndest at supporting himself. But he didn’t protest at the proffered shoulder to lean on, and Tony decided he’d keep to himself how he did most of the walking for both of them. When he edged the bedroom door open with a foot and guided Peter to his bed, the kid all but collapsed into the mattress.

It was with no shortage of help from Tony that he managed to wriggle under the comforter, and once he was there, he sunk into his pillows and curled up on himself again, like he was trying to make himself small.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, and Tony shook his head. He’d been expecting this.

“Nope, no more apologies. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Threw up on your carpet.”

“I don’t care about the carpet, Pete.”

“... Threw up on Miss Potts’s carpet.”

Tony sighed, perching himself on the edge of the mattress. He placed a hand over Peter’s covered ankle and squeezed.

“Kid, I know I paint her up as pretty scary, but I am not overexaggerating when I say you could do no wrong in Pepper’s eyes. She adores you. Thinks you’re the best damn thing since pre-sliced bread.”

Peter said nothing, looking more and more like he wanted to pull a disappearing act. Tony twisted his mouth to one side, thinking how best to approach this situation.

Then he smiled.

“Hey, I ever tell you about the time I threw up during class at MIT?”

Though Peter stayed silent for another moment, Tony could tell he’d hooked him in how the blankets unfurled, coming undone as Peter stretched out his legs.

“No,” he eventually said, and Tony grinned, giving his ankle a pat.

“Oh, good. Story time.” He shifted further down the bed to rest against the headboard, kicking his feet up on the mattress. “Gotta start sharing all the embarrassing college shit early, anyways, before Rhodey has a chance to get to you. He likes to embellish by putting all the blame on me.”

The word choice had been purposeful. Rhodey was abroad right now and wouldn’t be home for another month or so. Peter knew this, and that promise—“of course you’ll still be around for that, of course I’ll introduce my best friend to you”—was quiet but palpable, and performed its intended effect. Peter’s body further dropped some of that built-up tenseness, this time around the shoulders, and the eye not currently buried in a pillow cracked open to peer up at Tony in curiosity.

It was progress.

“Al _right_ ,” Tony started, making a show of settling in right and proper. “Let me preface this by saying that we were young and dumb, and that _you_ —” he shot a finger down Pete’s way, “—should by no means start getting any ideas. Because your aunt would kill me, and then I’d come back to haunt your skinny ass. Clear?”

The corner of Peter’s visible eye crinkled up, and Tony could hear the smile in his response.

“Crystal.”

“Superb. So… freshman year. Little fourteen-year-old, pre-growth spurt Anthony E. Stark, properly unleashed on the world for the first time. And, as can only be expected, I wanted to leave a memorable impression. As if my mere presence weren’t enough to make the masses faint.”

Peter blew out an exasperated breath below him, thumping his forehead on the side of Tony’s thigh in silent reprimand and keeping it there. Tony chuckled, brought one hand down to rest in Peter’s curls while he continued to gesture with the other.

“Now, if movies had taught me anything, it was that college kids liked two things: drinking, and drinking at parties. So obviously, the perfect way to make friends was to drink, go to a lot of parties, and drink at a lot of parties. Right?”

He gave Peter a pointed look, pushing the kid’s bangs away from his forehead. He could see the smile stretching up to Peter’s cheek, now.

“ _Wrong_ ,” he continued, “and I’m making a detour in the story to tell you so. But I was… a lot, when I was your age, Pete. A real piece of work.” He looked back up, cleared his throat, started running his fingers through Peter’s hair in earnest. “It got me into all sorts of trouble, like at this first party I went to. One of the MIT sorority girls was hosting it at her apartment—not even a sorority, but a sorority _girl_ , singular—and it was a pretty low-key affair. Couple guests, a card table, a couch that smelled like weed and was so old it was a family heirloom with a name of its own, the works. And Miss Singular Sorority Girl had an obvious crush on Rhodey, so she invited him and I got tacked on as his plus-one. You wouldn’t think it now, but he used to be exceptionally gifted at the subtle art of ‘not knowing how to say no.’”

Tony shifted on the bed, crossing one leg over the other and tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Memories were swimming in front of his eyes and Peter had gone to putty under his fingers by now, totally relaxed under the ministrations in his hair. A distant part of Tony’s brain wondered why this all felt mindless, asking what he’d been so terrified of before now.

“So we get there, right? And I make a beeline for one of the coolers. Rhodey’s already chatting it up with one of his classmates, but I can feel he’s watching me like a hawk so I decide to start out slow, just a couple sips of beer. I’m fairly certain the brand name was Piss, by the way. In huge letters on the side, which was pretty apt, because that’s what it tasted like.”

That got a little laugh out of Peter, and it felt like a victory.

“But then, maybe halfway through the night, when everybody’s played a few rounds of cards and changed the stereo once or twice—and gotten a little tipsy—one kid says he’ll be right back. He wanders out of the apartment, is gone for an hour or so, and comes back with two whole bottles of scotch… Plus some pretty suspicious stains on his jacket that may or may not have been blood—” Peter made an exaggerated gasp, “—but that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that the night became a blur from there on out.”

“Of course,” Peter whispered.

“Of _course_ ,” Tony repeated, flourishing his free hand. “We got all rosy-cheeked, started singing Christmas carols in September… Rhodey nailed Mariah Carey’s high notes, by the way, and you should absolutely ask him to demonstrate when you meet him.”

“Thought you said the night was a blur?”

“A blur of merriment, bud. And when it was over, we all passed out on the marijuana family heirloom couch—whose name was Bertie Junior, now that I think about it—and woke up to the sun coming through the blinds. Real picturesque, except…” He paused for dramatic effect, and Peter lifted his head up enough to show his whole face, eyes widening in mock anticipation before quickly growing heavy. The pull of sleep had become evident in the droop to his eyelids.

“... _Except_ , it was a Monday morning, well past the start of my freshman seminar on applied engineering in oceanic exploration. And because I gave somewhat of a shit about my grades at that early point, I was freaking out.”

“ _No_ ,” Peter said.

“Yes. So I picked myself up, kicked Rhodey to make sure he was still alive—he wasn’t, he died that day, very sad—and sprinted for Huntington Hall. No exaggeration, because I literally hauled ass. Now, Pete. Have you ever tried navigating yourself around a campus you weren’t familiar with, wearing the clothes you’d gotten drunk _and_ slept in, panicking the entire time, all while nursing a serious hangover?”

“Can’t—” Peter yawned, “—can’t say that I have.”

“Well, surprise surprise, it leads to profuse amounts of throwing up. And I found that out when I somehow made it to the seminar hall, shoved through the door hard enough to leave a dent in the wall, announced ‘good morning’ like I was a talk show host, and then lost my lunch. Lunch _es_ , plural. From that past week, at least.”

He chuckled to himself, running his nails along the top of Peter’s scalp.

“I heard some shouting. Pretty sure the professor started throwing up, too. I definitely passed out after that, because the next thing I remember is waking up back in my dorm. And Rhodey must’ve revived himself long enough to make his own way back, because he was collapsed on the floor beside me. We slept for… I wanna say the rest of the day. Through all our Monday classes, at least.”

Tony smiled down at Peter, who had his eyes closed but still wore a goofy grin of his own.

“And _that_ , Mister Parker, is why you shouldn’t feel bad for vomiting on my carpet, because at least you didn’t steal the spotlight from me.”

When Tony finished, there was a small stretch of silence, like Peter’s brain was taking its time in processing the concept of a conclusion. Tony knew when he realized, though, because the kid’s lips quirked up the barest bit more and he chuckled, a small and breathy thing. Then he sunk one side of his face back into the pillows, humming contentedly. His neck angled out when Tony scratched behind his ear, like a sleepy cat, breaths evening out. Slowly, the intervals between each inhale began stretching… and stretching… and stretching…

“What does the E stand for?” Peter suddenly murmured, and Tony blinked in surprise. He’d been certain the kid was asleep.

“What?”

“You said Anthony _E_. Stark. I didn’t know you had a middle name.”

Tony blinked again, then huffed a laugh.

“Wow. That’s really the only question you have for me?”

“Pretty sure I can just google all your drinking stuff, Mister Stark.”

“Hmph. You’re a little shit, you know that?” There was no bite to the words.

“Stop avoiding the question, Anthony.”

Tony laughed again, louder this time, a little incredulous.

“It’s Edward,” he said, smiling at Peter’s little _mhm_ , and God. He loved this kid.

(Maybe.)

“Just one of those things the average joe isn’t privy to. Don’t know why. Not that I’m keen on telling the whole world my middle name is Edward.”

(... He probably loved this kid.)

“Know that sharing this information will be at the cost of losing your lab privileges.”

He got a soft snore in response, and yeah. He definitely loved this kid.

—————————

Pepper picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, honey,” Tony said.

“Hello. Is the apartment burning down?”

Tony pouted.

“Ya know, you should really start lowering your expectations of me. Less chance of being disappointed that way.”

“Oh, the apartment burning down is the lowest rung on the ladder,” Pepper shot back, a smile evident in her voice. “But moving on, because I can tell you’re excited to talk about it. How’s your mini patient holding up?”

The pout went into a grin.

“I talked him to sleep.”

“In a good sort of way, right?”

“In a ‘he needed something to calm him down and I helped him along’ sort of way.”

“Topic of discussion?”

“MIT days.”

“Mm, good choice.”

“Oh, and there’s a lingering vomit stain on our carpet, by the way. And on one of your throws. I cleaned up what I could, but I’m sure you will be apologized to profusely the moment you step through the door.”

Pepper hummed in sympathy.

“He’s certainly been through the wringer. I’ll call for cleaning services after he’s left.”

Tony made an _mhm_ back, then stared at the ceiling, letting the sounds of Pepper’s packing and footsteps flow over him. She would be catching the first flight home in the evening where she was, and Tony would be lying if he said he wasn’t anticipating her arrival. It was a little past one in the morning in New York City, and he wasn’t tired, but neither was he itching to steal away to the lab. For now, he was content to simply exist, and it was a feeling both comforting and foreign.

“I actually did talk him to sleep,” he reiterated a couple minutes later, more for himself than for Pepper. “And I told him my middle name. He asked.”

“Oh, lord,” Pepper mused, chuckling. “So we’re officially on an Edward basis now? Because Rhodey was telling me that it was only a matter of time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Talk it up behind my back.”

“Hey, we only ever state the obvious. Like when we call you a big sap? Because it’s true?”

“Not sure revealing a middle name makes somebody a big sap.”

“It does if it’s _your_ middle name. And you know what I mean.”

“Hm. Jury’s still out,” he said, but he did.

He knew exactly what she meant, and was glad for it.

**Author's Note:**

> (peter gets kidnapped, is told to reveal valuable info on tony, and in his blind panic he shouts that tony's middle name is edward. he escapes like five minutes later because hes a badass, and when tony finds out what he said he loses his lab privileges for one day. but then rhodey won't stop laughing so peter gets _two_ days of revoked lab time.
> 
> theres never any actual revoked lab time ofc)
> 
> anyways, will i ever get tired of tony just being absolutely in love with being a dad?? No.
> 
> thank yall for reading <3000 kudos & comments are always appreciated!!
> 
> and, if you want, come find me on instagram! (@souptrader) i post my weird art there :)


End file.
